


Bare-Knuckle

by lezzerlee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blood, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Comeplay, Community: inception_kink, Consensual Violence, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Violence, Violence, gaping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a con Eames enters a bare-knuckle boxing match. Arthur joins in on the fun. Eames is incredibly turned on by that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bare-Knuckle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com) theme week [Ribaldry & Rage](http://night-reveals.livejournal.com/16550.html)
> 
> Inspired by [these](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17044.html?thread=35408020#t35408020) two [prompts](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17044.html?thread=35003796#t35003796) in [Inception Kink](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink)
> 
> Beta'd by [Anamuan](http://anamuan.livejournal.com) and [Cathenian](http://cathenian.livejournal.com)

Eames emerges from the back room after taping up his now gashed and bruised fingers. Sweat and blood is still sticky on his skin; there are no showers in warehouses that define the gritty edges of the outskirts of the city’s industrial sprawl. He can taste the copper from his wounded lip, can feel the tight stretch of skin over his swelling cheek. He wants to clear the blockage from his nose, spit the blood out, but he knows that as soon as he does his eye will swell completely shut.

He looks for Arthur in the crowd, pushing his way through the crush of bodies, shirtless in a sea of denim and leather. He’ll start to get cold when the adrenaline of the fight wears off. No heat in the middle of winter and cement floors have everyone in their jackets, and Eames is not looking forward to slipping his over the remnants of his opponent still splashed across his skin.

He can’t find Arthur. There are a thousand people in this room but Eames has always been able to pinpoint him anywhere. It unsettles him that he can’t seem to locate him now. Maybe Arthur is collecting his winnings, or possibly negotiating another fight next month.

This is the most physical con Eames has ever run. There might have been less painful ways of making a spot for them in this particular crime ring--he’s sure there are, in fact. They would just take more time than either he or Arthur would like to dedicate right now.

He’d think he was crazy, infiltrating through bare-knuckle boxing, if he didn’t love to fight. It has been a long time since he’s relished the feel of snapping a man’s head back with perfectly placed punch. It has been too long since he’s nursed his own wounds from a fair fight. He can already feel the bruises blooming over his ribs and across his abdomen.  His fight had been hard won and he is going to suffer each punch he’d endured even more in the coming days.

When he circles around the betting corner without spotting Arthur, he starts to get nervous. Not that he doubts Arthur can take care of himself, nothing of the sort. But the look Arthur had leveled at him immediately after the end of his fight, as he was standing over the unconscious form of his opponent, was dangerous.

It is the look Arthur gets when he is looking for trouble, or when he finds himself in it. It’s a feral look: sharp like glass, all black pupils and unwavering intensity.  A chill runs up Eames’ spine, and not from the cold of the unheated warehouse settling around his now-cooled skin. This shiver is specifically for that feeling that Arthur’s fixed gaze gives him: of being a deer on the road in front of a speeding truck.

He continues searching, making his way from the paltry bar selling the piss-water Americans call beer to the garage door guarded by less intimidating men than those in the ring. He doesn't find Arthur until he turns back, glancing towards the makeshift ring when the crowd starts cheering for the next set of fighters. Arthur is stripped down to his briefs, bouncing in the corner of the boarded circle, no hint of modesty gracing his features at his lack of clothes. 

Eames’ breath catches in his lungs. Arthur is shaking his fists at his sides to loosen up. Eames can see his stare focused, pinpointed, on the fighter across from him.  Like a hawk , Eames thinks,  predatory . Eames knows Arthur is deadly with guns, with tactics, with strategy and well-placed projectiles, but he's never seen him fight before. Not one on on—no weapons, no gloves— all bone and soft flesh.

Eames' mouth goes dry, only his own blood slicking his tongue. All he can do is stare at Arthur, at every ripple of Arthur's wiry muscles beneath his pale skin. His body is gleaming with the light sheen of a hasty warm up. He stares at the hollow dip of Arthur’s collarbones as the man shifts his shoulders, lowering his head to look at his opponent through dark lashes.

The other fighter visibly wilts under Arthur’s scrutiny. Eames doesn’t blame him at all. He’s done the same and he has three stone on the lithe point man. But Eames has never had to fight Arthur, not like this man will have to. He’s battled with Arthur for dominance in the bedroom, but that intensity has always been his undoing, the unknown depths and heat behind it too much. It doesn’t matter who tops with Arthur, he will always be in control.

Eames groans at the sudden rush of heated memories. His thoughts are now swirling around Arthur pinning him to the wall, shoving his thigh between Eames’ legs and biting his lip with such ferocity that he draws blood. Eames tongues his split lip, marveling in the parallel and how quickly his mind can be brought down into the gutter. Arthur has a way of doing that to him, of making every moment lead to pornographic thoughts, of breaking him down do his base level, a primal, lustful creature.

Eames is snapped out of his reverie when the ref calls for the fight to begin. Both men stalk from their respective corners to the center of the enclosed area. They don’t shake hands, bump fists, anything sportsmanlike. It’s not this league’s style. They play by the rules, sure, but this is not friendly sparring. There is an all too real chance that someone will be laid out dead today, a body dumped in a field with a thousand witnesses who will admit nothing.

Arthur and his opponent circle each other, fists up and ready. They’re both fast, not hindered by bulky muscle. But while Arthur’s movements are precise, calculated, and controlled, his opponent’s are jittery and disjointed. Arthur’s competitor is all nervous energy and skittish retreats. Every time Arthur steps towards him, he jumps away.

Eames knows that’s the worst thing this guy can do, because now Arthur is getting pissed. The lines in his face etch imperceptibly deeper. Eames wonders if anyone else can read Arthur like he can.

Arthur is looking for a fight and Eames knows he’s going to get it. With lighting fast speed, Arthur darts forward, dipping low and jabbing at the guy’s ribs.  Something deep in Eames flares with heat. The guy takes the punch but swings erratically, trying to catch Arthur from the side. Arthur has already backed out, too quick for the wild fist. He shoots in again, landing two more punches to his opponent’s sides.

Watching Arthur is breathtaking. He’s whip fast and a flurry of brutal fists. Eames can’t help but delight in the roll of Arthur’s hips as he evades punches. The curve of his flank beneath the thin cotton is enough to cause Eames’ prick to stir. He loves Arthur like this. He’s known Arthur has an edge to him, but seeing it realized in a raw, physical, unhindered attack is captivating.

Eames can imagine just how Arthur feels with his legs wrapped around him. He can feel the shift of Arthur’s strong thighs on his hips. He can imagine the pads of Arthur’s fingers digging into his flesh, as he holds on and rides Eames out.

Eames desires nothing more than to fuck Arthur on the spot; he wants to rip through the crowd and press Arthur up against the panels of the ring. But that would be interrupting the show. Not just for the spectators, whom he assumes would not appreciate the act, but for himself. As much as he wants to ravish the point man, he wants to see Arthur finish the fight more. He wants Arthur to win, to beat this guy into a pulp. He wants to lick the man’s blood from Arthur’s fingers. He wants to taste the sweat of victory as he devours Arthur’s skin.

Eames thoughts converge on Arthur. He focuses on every move that Arthur makes. He watches as the pale skin of Arthur’s thighs tightens around the flex of muscle. He watches as Arthur’s head bobs from side to side, to glance past the fists raised to protect his face. He watches as Arthur’s jaw twitches around the thin plastic of a protective mouth guard.

When Arthur takes a hit to the face, Eames nearly growls. Anger spikes uncontrollably in the back of his head, turning his skin hot and red with rage. He wants to murder this man. He wants to stroke his fingers over the bruises on Arthur’s face tomorrow, while he remembers choking the life out of the son of a bitch who hurt his Arthur.

But Arthur can take care of himself. Arthur recovers brilliantly. He’s more aggressive than before; he’s not willing to take another shot like that. One blow is more likely to knock you out when you don’t use gloves and Eames knows that Arthur isn’t about to lose this match. He knows that Arthur never likes when someone gets any kind of edge on him.

Arthur advances on his adversary with relentless force. Arthur’s nose is bleeding a beautiful, vermilion, waterfall down his face; anger emanates from him in waves. The crowd’s chaotic roar builds as they sense the end of the match. The anticipation sends electricity throughout the room. Everyone wants blood, more blood, and Arthur will deliver. His poor challenger is helpless to stop the inevitable.

Arthur strikes quickly, coming in for a few more body shots that double the man over under his blows. In one, clean motion Arthur uppercuts into the man’s vulnerable jaw. The click of the man’s teeth knocking together can be heard over the jeers of the audience. His head snaps back in a beautiful arc.

Eames smirks with delight. The man is dazed on his feet, unable to defend himself; he hardly seems to know where he is. Arthur lays out one final, powerful punch that has his fist sinking into the soft flesh of the guy’s face. Sweat snaps off the man as his head wrenches to the side. He goes down hard, crumpling under his own weight.

The roar in the room is deafening as the man lies sprawled on the cold cement, unconscious and sucking in uncontrollable, desperate gulps of air. Arthur bounces a few more times on his feet, working out the rest of his energy. Then he turns and shoots a heated look directly at Eames, a wry mockery of a smile tugging the corner of his red-stained lip upwards.

Eames shivers, because it’s as if Arthur had known where Eames was this entire fight. Like he had somehow targeted Eames’ position while simultaneously taking a man apart with his bare hands. Eames grins wolfishly back and Arthur turns away as his hand is dragged into the air in a display of victory.

Eames makes his way to the edge of the ring, to Arthur’s corner. He desperately wants to kiss the point man, to taste his blood, lick his face clean of it, but he’ll settle for just being close enough to smell him. To bask in the musk of testosterone and perspiration.

He shoves people out of his way, heedless of their protests and angry grimaces. He’ll gladly take them on if that’s their desire—nothing will stop him from getting to Arthur. Wisely, no one protests with anything more than glowers and mumbled indignation. When he reaches the edge of the ring, he finds Arthur spitting out the mouth guard and then pouring a bottle of water into his opened mouth.

Eames unabashedly watches the movement of Arthur’s long throat as he swallows. He takes in the torn knuckles on Arthur’s hands, the raw, red flesh of his sides where punches found their way in. He sees the split skin of Arthur’s cheek and imagines biting into it, not hard, just enough to make Arthur hiss and squirm underneath him. He imagines the bruise that will appear underneath Arthur’s eyes. A mark that will remind him for weeks of how elegantly brutal Arthur can be.

That’s all he can take. Not a moment more of waiting. He’ll ravage Arthur right here and now if he has to. He’ll pull him down to the dirty cement and force his tongue down Arthur’s throat. He’ll strip him bare for the world to see and claim him as his own.

“We need to get out of here right now because, darling, if I have to wait another moment: I cannot be held accountable for my actions.”

Arthur pauses, looks at him knowingly, before tilting his head toward him and parting his mouth. He runs his tongue across his teeth and it’s not a smile that he’s giving Eames: it’s a challenge. 

Eames growls at that and he reaches over the wall to snatch Arthur’s wrist, emphasizing his point. “I’m serious, Arthur, and I somehow don’t think you’re much for doing this in front of an audience.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow like he’s actually contemplating it. Eames’ mind flashes through new images of himself pressed against Arthur’s naked flesh as people leer at them, surrounding them in a living, breathing cage. He imagines eyes boring into their naked flesh as he pounds Arthur into the ground.

But Arthur is pulling his slacks on, not caring that the sweat and blood will ruin them. He doesn’t even bother wiping his face before leaping over the boards. He drags Eames towards the exit, muttering something about collecting winnings later, but Eames isn’t really paying attention anymore. He’s focused on the streaks of dirt across Arthur’s naked back. He’s focused on the fingers digging into his forearm and the shift of Arthur’s shoulder blades beneath his skin.

They march right past the security and Eames catches a knowing look from the one on the right. The man raises his eyebrows in approval and Eames bares his teeth. It pinches his swollen skin uncomfortably. He can’t even muster the energy to be lewd, or flirtatious. He does what he can to produce as a smile before making his way through the door.

Arthur guides him past the array of cars parked haphazardly in the streets. Eames is still clutching his shirt and jacket in his hands, and he wonders where Arthur’s are. The air is frigid and every hair on his body stands on end—Arthur doesn't even seem phased by the chill. He keeps leading Eames past garbage bins and down an alley. There are men smoking outside, huddled into their coats. They barely give the two of them a second glance when they pass.

Arthur takes another turn, down yet another empty alley. They keep walking and Eames grows impatient. He has no idea where Arthur is taking him. They’re well away from their car, and there’s no access to the other buildings in this area. He doesn’t really feel like breaking in without his tools. All he wants to do is pin Arthur down and drive into his hot, tight ass. He wants to smother the breath from Arthur’s lungs. He wants to make him cry out underneath him.

When they’ve made it halfway down a third alley, this one tiny with barely enough room for a sedan to pass through, Arthur turns and attacks Eames’ mouth with his own. Eames can taste the sanguine sweetness of Arthur’s injuries. He presses himself up against Eames, shoving him back towards the brick wall with hands sliding up across his chest. Arthur’s hands continue up until they are wrapped in his hair, pulling his head backwards until it knocks against the hard surface and forces him to expose his throat.

Arthur bites into his skin, teeth nipping at the muscle along his neck. Eames’ mouth parts in an involuntary moan and he wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, pulling him tighter. He drags his hands down over Arthur’s firm backside, sliding them over the pert muscle. Eames hooks his fingers underneath the cleft of Arthur’s cheeks and hauls him up until Arthur is compelled to wrap his legs around his waist.

He shoves off of the brick wall, carrying them across the ally, until he slams Arthur into the opposite wall. Arthur lets out a huff of air at the collision and Eames smothers his mouth with his own lips before Arthur can inhale again. Arthur moans into his mouth as he clings to Eames’ shoulders. Eames loves the press of the slim digits into his flesh. He can feel his lip split open again and taste Arthur’s blood mixing with his own. Arthur struggles beneath him as Eames plunders his mouth, not allowing the man a chance to breathe. He fights and tugs desperately at Eames’ hair, trying to work himself free.

Arthur’s tugs become painful pulling when he’s finally had enough; Eames reluctantly leans away, allowing Arthur to draw in shuddering breaths. His lips are swollen and streaked with crimson. Arthur pants as Eames dips his head low to suck on Arthur’s collar bone.

He can taste the salt on his skin. Arthur is like burning coals in his arms: all the adrenaline of the fight is still in his system. Eames sucks and sucks until Arthur’s skin is cherried in a small ring. It’s so unlike the other marks on his body from today. It’s a concise little circle of broken blood vessels. It’s his mark and no one else’s.

Eames bites down onto it, making Arthur hiss.  He sinks his teeth in again, leaving dents along the thin bone, his fingers kneading into Arthur’s ass. He can feel Arthur’s erection through the thin material of his pants as he grinds him against the wall. Arthur fights against him, trying to gain control. His legs tighten around Eames’ waist and he bites hard on his lips. It’s hard enough to make Eames yelp in his throat. He bites back, knocking their teeth together with a sharp clack.

Arthur’s tongue invades his mouth like serpent in a rabbit’s den, seeking out anything it can find, anything Eames will give him. Arthur rolls his hips a few more times, pressing his erection into the muscles of Eames’ stomach, before releasing his hold and dropping his legs down. Eames allows this because it gives him the opportunity to undo Arthur’s slacks.

When he reaches between them he cups Arthur through his pants, reveling in Arthur’s pinched-shut eyes and throaty hum. But before he works Arthur’s pants open, Arthur dives under his arms, coming around behind him and shoving him into the wall. Arthur’s palm is pressed between his shoulder blades, hips flush against his own hip and Eames feels a hand cup over his ass, sliding just below his balls. Arthur smooths circles over Eames’ sweats and brings his face close to Eames’ ear.

“You like seeing me hurt,’” Arthur breathes. Eames’ thoughts are short circuiting, barely breaking past the focus of Arthur’s insistent movement but he manages to choke out a response.

“I like seeing you hurt people,” he responds.

Before he is drawn back into the lull of the hand moving over him, Eames grabs Arthur around the waist. He shoves the man back between himself and the wall so Arthur’s front is pressed flat against the brick. He mimics Arthur’s movement from just a moment earlier by pressing his fingers in, stroking at Arthur’s perineum through the cotton trousers.

“I like seeing you hurt, too.”

He flips Arthur around by the arm to face him and runs a calloused finger across the wound on Arthur’s cheek. He’s not gentle and tears spring from the corners of the point man’s eyes. He presses a thumb into the mottled skin of Arthur’s ribs and Arthur doesn’t sob, no, but he makes this sound like a wounded animal trapped in a cage. Like something that’s still going to fight you until the bitter end.

Arthur sweeps Eames’ leg out from under him and he finds himself, flat on his ass, on the pavement. His elbow skates across the loose rock and stings as his skin peels away. He finds Arthur straddled on top of him, pressing firmly upon his sternum.

“I like seeing you in pain, as well.”

Arthur slips his hand up to Eames’ throat. He leans over him, applying pressure as his center of gravity shifts. He takes Eames’ mouth with his own, sucking on his still-bleeding lip. Eames grabs Arthur’s hips and pulls him more firmly on top of him. He knows he’ll be leaving his own bruises as he presses Arthur down into his groin. Arthur shifts, rocking back to meet Eames’ pull. His mouth falls open and Arthur tightens his grip on Eames’ throat, cutting off his airway. Eames just stares, into Arthur’s eyes, and he thrusts his hips up off the ground in little circles.

He decides at that moment to take back control. He pumps off the ground again, but with force, tossing Arthur sideways. Arthur scrambles to recover and rolls away before Eames can grab him again. He’s up and on his feet in flash, taking up a defensive position as Eames rises. Arthur grins, that predatory grin, and Eames returns it. He rushes to attack; Arthur is fast, yes, but Eames has more experience than that other guy did. He can read people. He predicts Arthur’s moves and catches his arm. He digs his nails in as Arthur tries to jerk free. He twists Arthur’s arm up and Arthur swings with his loose hand.

He connects with Eames’ ribs, but Eames can take it. He doesn’t drop his hold. He takes each of Arthur’s shots without flinching. This isn’t the ring though, and Arthur doesn’t have to play fair. He kicks at Eames’ shin, forcing it sideways, causing him to lose balance. Eames stumbles, shoulder first, into the wall. He recovers just enough to block the next blow. Eames snatches Arthur by the arm again and yanks back. He heaves him into the wall. Arthur lets out a little grunt when he connects.

Eames doesn’t expect Arthur to come directly at him, so when the point man practically leaps into his arms, Eames falters. It’s not often that Eames can’t see it coming, can’t see that little flash of intent in someones eyes. Arthur is usually open to him, but every once in a while he’ll catch Eames off guard. Eames loves that about him: he loves that Arthur will always be a bit of a mystery.

Arthur lands a few more punches before Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s jaw. He digs his fingers into the muscle as Arthur’s teeth scrape ineffectively at the palm of his hand. Controlling Arthur’s head. He shoves him back against the wall. Arthur is clawing at his elbow, leaving little lacerations on his skin. Eames’ palm is wet with Arthur’s angry spit. He goes to undo Arthur’s pants again while the man’s hands are occupied. He yanks them open and tries to shove them off Arthur’s bony hips but Arthur finally manages to break Eames’ hold by swinging both fists down on his wrist.

His hand pops off Arthur’s jaw but Eames shoves his whole body against Arthur to keep him from escaping. With his shoulder slammed into Arthur’s chest, he returns to the task of getting Arthur’s pants off. He pulls them down quickly, taking the briefs with, and Arthur’s cock bobs freely away from his body, red and swollen and dripping. It’s so fucking beautiful Eames could drop to his knees right there. He could endure the press of bone on rough gravel through the thin skin of his knees just to taste it right now.

He doesn’t though. Instead he wraps his hand around Arthur’s length and squeezes. He knows it’s much too forceful but he wants a reaction. When Arthur yelps and snaps his hips back Eames doesn’t let go. He does loosen his grip and stroke back and forth, easing the pressure.

It’s dry, and he really can’t give much in the way of movement, but Eames keeps tugging even as he lets his shoulder up. Arthur stays against the wall. He’s breathing erratically and staring at Eames’ lips like they’re the only things in the world. Eames knows exactly how much Arthur loves it when he wraps them around him. He knows how Arthur sighs and moans and struggles to hold back until he just can’t anymore when he pumps into Eames’ mouth. Eames loves the ache in his jaw and the rawness of his throat after he sucks Arthur off. But that’s not on the agenda right now.

Eames places his hand back on Arthur’s face, grabbing his chin, and shoves his thumb in Arthur’s mouth. He can feel the flat of Arthur’s tongue undulate under it as he presses the muscle down. He hooks his thumb on Arthur’s lower teeth and pulls forward. Arthur follows awkwardly, almost falling forward, tripping over the pants between his ankles. Eames catches him with an arm and turns him to face the wall. Arthur steps out of his pants and Eames kicks Arthur’s legs wide. Arthur isn’t fighting anymore, he’s letting Eames have his way. Eames isn’t fooled though: this is Arthur getting getting what he wants. This is Arthur allowing himself to be manhandled.

Arthur’s back is pale and unmarked from the fight. It’s a blank canvas that Eames wants to create on. He wants to paint Arthur with stripes so he drags his nails down Arthur’s back, hard. It’s not quite enough to draw blood, just enough to make Arthur suck in a pained breath of air. Eames bites down on the juncture of Arthur’s neck and shoulder. He leaves little teeth marks all down Arthur’s shoulder blades. Eames presses his thumbs into the small of Arthur’s back, kneading at the muscles, easing the pain with pleasure. He kisses along the bumps of Arthur’s spine, inching lower and lower, until he’s mouthing just above the crack of Arthur’s ass.

He bites Arthur’s cheek, hard, and Arthur whines. But Eames soothes it by licking in, pressing his tongue between the two cheeks and spreading Arthur wide. Arthur lets out a choked, little hitch of breath when Eames swipes his tongue over the tight pucker of muscle. Eames pulls away and presses his thumb there. Blood from Eames’ lip is smeared at Arthur’s entrance and he plays with it, swirling it against the skin. He applies pressure but doesn’t sink in, just circles around the hole, feeling it flex beneath his finger.

“Eames.” Arthur does not sob, but it’s damn near close.

Eames grins and pulls his hand way, replacing it with his tongue again. He licks generously, forcing his way inside. The ring is tight around his tongue but is slowly relaxing. Eames can feel Arthur’s legs tremble as he holds on to the man’s thighs, pulling him back onto his face. Arthur whimpers softly with each wet stripe he paints. Finally the muscle relaxes more, allowing his tongue inside the hot entrance. He pulls away again and shoves his own finger into his mouth, gathering the spit at the back. He pokes his way in, spit-slick finger sliding easily, and Eames’ marvels at the ribbons of blood floating suspended in the fluid, as he glides his digits in.

Arthur is so tight, just a sheath of wet heat and pulsing flesh. Eames slips his finger in and out. He knows it’s not enough for Arthur. Arthur is shoving back on his hand and panting. He’s saying Eames name; little snippets of begging. Eames presses in a second finger. He scissors them, stretching Arthur as much as he can because this is all Arthur is going to get. He wants Arthur to feel the burn when he finally slides in, so he’s not going to use three fingers, or four, because Arthur can take it. Eames works Arthur open and licks around his own fingers to add more lubrication. He tongues where Arthur’s ass is wrapped around him.

“Eames, fuck,” Arthur breathes.

He’s shoving his ass back, trying to get more. His face is sideways, pressed up against the brick wall, his hands splayed out to both sides as he holds himself up. Eames loves Arthur like this: pushing back and opening himself up. Arthur is such a little cock-slut. Eames could have him begging for it if he wants to and it wouldn’t take long at all, but his own erection is begging for attention. He’s been hard since Arthur dragged him out the door.

He pulls his fingers out and Arthur moans at the loss. Eames licks wetly into Arthur’s spread cheeks again, depositing as much spit as possible. He stands and drops his sweats to his ankles. He spits into his palm, which Arthur frowns at. Arthur doesn’t like the sound of it: he’s told Eames a million times. But he needs the lube and Arthur doesn’t protest.

Eames wraps his wet fingers around his shaft, slicking it up. He pulls back the foreskin and lines up with Arthur’s entrance. He circles the head around Arthur’s hole a few times, wetting the tip and enjoying the twitch of Arthur’s muscles.

“Eames, fuck me already,” Arthur demands.

So Eames does. He presses in steadily, not waiting for Arthur to adjust: just keeps going as Arthur wails. He doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated. Only then does he allow Arthur a moment. Arthur is shuddering, staccato breaths wracking his lungs. His face is still turned to the side and Eames can see the shimmer of unshed tears in the corner of Arthur’s eyes.

For a brief second he’s afraid that he’s hurt Arthur too much, but then Arthur pushes back, urging Eames to move. So Eames pulls out until just the head of his prick is still inside, then he drives forward. Arthur hiccups with pleasure, so Eames drives in again. He thrusts over and over again at an unrelenting pace until Arthur is sobbing beneath him. Every snap of his hips drawing out a little broken noise. When Arthur reaches for his own erection, Eames swats his hand away. Arthur’s eyes snap open and he glares at Eames as best he can at the awkward angle.

Eames pulls out and watches as Arthur’s asshole gapes, twitching, open, and clutching at nothing. He wants to shove his fingers in there until all of them fit, until Arthur is sinking over every knuckle as his whole hand slides in. Instead he spins Arthur around and lifts him off the ground: Arthur is so light. He hooks his arm under Arthur’s knees and holds him against the wall. Arthur wraps his arms around Eames’ shoulder to hold himself up as Eames repositions his prick.

He lowers Arthur onto him until he’s sunk into Arthur’s tight heat again. He thrusts his hips up. Arthur’s fingers play over his skin before they wrap themselves back into Eames’ hair. Arthur’s back has to be dragging across the wall uncomfortably but he doesn’t complain. He just gasps and moans and pulls Eames’ hair. Arthur is looking down at him with an open mouth, drying blood smeared across his face, as he rides each roll of Eames’ hips. Arthur’s cock is smearing pre-come across Eames’ abdomen as it bobs up and down.

Arthur releases Eames' hair with one hand to let it drift over his face. He runs his thumb over the split in Eames’ lip. The touch is disarmingly gentle. His hand tracks up to Eames’ eye and Arthur brushes over the swollen flesh, running a thumb along the skin. His eyes are unfocused and dreamy as he caresses Eames. Arthur bends down to kiss the injury, to lick at it, and then Eames is coming, overwhelmed by the affection he feels for Arthur in that moment. He’s shouting and jerking without rhythm as he spills himself into Arthur. He drags out each stroke until he can’t take it anymore, prick too sensitive, forcing him to pull out.

When he does, a trail of semen follows, dripping onto to alley floor. Eames holds Arthur there as he watches the white liquid fall to the ground; Arthur’s ass unable to hold it in. Eames could just put his face under there, to catch every last drop, if he weren’t holding Arthur up. Arthur whimpers and buries his face in Eames’ neck. If Eames didn’t know any better he could mistake this for embarrassment. Arthur is just suffering the loss: Arthur would keep every last drop inside if he could. Eames gives a quick nip to Arthur’s chest before dropping his legs.

He sinks to his knees and takes Arthur in his mouth. He doesn’t even begin with licking, just sucks him down until Arthur hits the back of his throat. Arthur gives a guttural moan, hips snapping forward involuntarily. Eames doesn’t mind, he can take it. He could swallow Arthur for days if he had to. Wet streams of ejaculate are running down Arthur’s thighs so Eames runs his fingers up Arthur’s legs, collecting it. He brings his hand out and wraps it around the base of Arthur’s cock, smoothing up the shaft, before bringing his mouth down over the fluid, tasting the saltiness.

He pushes his fingers back into Arthur’s come-wet ass as he hollows out his cheeks to suck harder. Arthur gasps in short breaths; he’s close. Eames works his fingers around, trying to find that spot. He hooks his fingers forward and Arthur’s cock jumps in his mouth. Arthur cries out as he wrenches forward, gagging Eames. Eames gasps around the thick muscle in his throat before regaining his pace. Arthur is so wet, dripping down his wrist as he keeps working at the nerve center inside. Eames keeps burying his nose into Arthur’s curls until Arthur is releasing strangled groans of ecstasy and clenching around Eames’ fingers as he climaxes.

Eames drinks down every last drop of Arthur’s release before popping off. Spit trails a string, connecting his mouth and Arthur’s cock, and he grins at the mess he’s made of him. Arthur is disheveled, wet, bruised, and bloody. He’s sweaty even in the chill air: his skin shines with it. Eames can already see the purple seeping into knuckle-shaped marks all over Arthur’s body. He can see the bright red ring that he left on Arthur’s clavicle earlier. Arthur’s hair is drooping into his eyes and he looks so young when he’s broken like this; when he can’t form words and is smiling stupidly, blissed out and ready to collapse.

Eames doesn't realize immediately that he’s holding Arthur up. Arthur is shaking and all of his weight is anchored by the hands planted firmly on Eames’ shoulders. Eames stands, pushing Arthur back against the wall, grimacing at the pop of his knees. He’s getting too old to be sucking men off in an alleyway, but he’d do it when he’s ninety if it’s for Arthur. He brushes away the little pebbles that have embedded themselves in his skin. He shuffles to press himself against Arthur’s body, trying to touch him everywhere he can. He kisses the man, deep but without any of the edge, without any of the anger from before. He’s too fucked out to fight anymore.

Arthur seems about the same as he sighs into Eames’ mouth. They continue licking languorously at each other for a while before Eames feels Arthur shiver with cold. He bends down to gather his pants up and grabs Arthur’s at the same time, holding them out to Arthur as he pulls his sweats back over his hips. Arthur just stands there looking put out because everything about him is a mess. Even if he didn’t care about the blood and sweat before, come dripping down your inseam is just uncomfortable.

Arthur begins to wipe himself with his briefs and Eames goes hunting for his shirt and jacket, wherever he dropped them. He finds them cast aside a few meters away. He comes back and offers Arthur his shirt to clean up with, because Arthur’s briefs are about the size of a dishtowel and that just isn’t enough fabric for everything Eames had pumped inside of him. Eames slips his jacket on. He’s going to have to dry clean it later— luckily he knows a place that overlooks curious stains like blood and sperm.

Arthur doesn’t have a shirt or jacket with him so Eames wraps him in his arms as they make their way back to the warehouse. Arthur drops his briefs and Eames’ shirt in a bin on the way.

“We need to collect our winnings, “ Arthur says.

“How much do you suppose  we won?” Eames asks, because for once he didn’t place any bets.

“Fifteen. Enough for a trip to Berlin.”

“You bid  fifteen on me?” Eames asks, exacerbated, because he’s a good enough fighter, but he’s been out of the game for a while.

“No,  you  bid twelve on me. I bid three on you.”

Eames barks out a quick laugh.  Of course Arthur would bet on himself, the cheeky bastard. Using Eames’ name to do it is just asking for trouble, though.

“Also, I need to collect my shirt and jacket. They’re expensive.”

“You sure they’ll still be there?”

“Did you see me fight? Who’s going to steal my fucking coat after that?”

“You’re a cocky twat, you know that?”

“I may have paid a guy to keep an eye on them. Told him  you would find him if he let anything happen to them.” Arthur pokes him in the chest for emphasis.

“Oh, so now I’m your enforcer?”

“No, you’re my  boyfriend , that’s what boyfriends do.”

“Oh, really?”

“Don’t act like you’ve never told anyone that I would shoot them in the face if they fucked with you before.”

“Mmm. Good point. That’s one of my favorites. My darling, little, unassuming point man over there has five guns on his person at the moment and I don’t believe you would like to find out just how fast he can draw.”

“Really? Five? You know I only need three.”

“It’s to make a point, darling.”

Eames runs his fingers lightly over the bruises on Arthur’s skin. He’s going to kiss over each and every one tomorrow. He’s going to lay wet little marks all over Arthur’s skin. He’s going to hold Arthur tight in his arms and think about each blow Arthur delivered, each punch he took, until he’s hard. Then he’s going to fuck Arthur until he can’t think anymore, until Arthur is a sopping mess in his arm. Then he’s going to fuck him again while Arthur is still wet.

They have a month until the next match and a trip to Berlin in between. Eames can hardly wait.


End file.
